And there was red staining the white arrow shaft protruding from the wound.
Jan’s hand flew over her mouth. “We’re cursed,” she whispered, her face taking on the deer’s natural pallor. “Cursed,” she repeated fearfully.
And then, like a spooked animal, she bolted.
Chapter 4
A fallen lighthouse is more dangerous than a reef.
—C HINESE P ROVERB
T he sight of the dead deer paralyzed most of the walkers, including Rawlings. He stood without moving, spellbound by how the deer’s fur shone like moonlight on snow.
Millay snapped her fingers in front of the chief’s face. “Hey! Shouldn’t we call someone? What was that cop’s name? The one who kept things from getting out of control back at the lighthouse.”
“Peterson,” Rawlings said, the glassy look vanishing from his eyes. “He might still be on the island. If not, I assume the police have their own boat, because there isn’t a law enforcement station on this side of the Cape Fear River.” He turned away from the deer. “I saw that animal when I was a boy. No one believed me. But here it is.”
Harris shot Olivia a concerned glance and then held up his phone. “It’s not the same deer, Chief. According to this website, the average life span of a wild deer is ten years. They can live as long as twenty, but that would be pretty unusual for this doe, seeing as she’s a true albino. She even has pink eyes.”
Laurel shuddered. “This moonlit walk has gone from mysterious to downright creepy.”
Harris continued to examine his phone screen. “Only about one in every thirty thousand deer is a true albino.” He looked at Rawlings. “If you saw a similar deer all those years ago, then the gene has been passed down for several generations. Makes sense, considering the insular habitat of these deer. What doesn’t make sense is why anyone would kill such an amazing animal. And who goes around shooting crossbow bolts at night?”
Olivia squeezed Rawlings’s arm. “You need to call Peterson right now. I’m sure he’d prefer to hear about this from another cop.”
Harris pulled up the number for the Riverport Police Department and handed the phone to Rawlings. While the chief spoke to the officer on duty, the rest of the Bayside Book Writers retreated several feet. It was impossible to escape the cries of horror and dismay from the onlookers, however, so they stood in silence, gazing deeper into the woods where a small pool sparkled like sea glass in the pale light.
After what seemed like hours, Officer Peterson and a second officer arrived via golf cart.
“Step aside, folks,” Peterson commanded while taking in the scene.
Peterson stared at the felled animal for several seconds, in which the conservancy supporters breathlessly waited for a reaction, and then turned to the crowd. “It’s time for everyone to go home. We’ll take it from here.”
“Excuse me.” A man worked his way to Peterson’s side. “My name’s Brett Collins, and I’m involved with the Palmetto Island Deer Initiative. We maintain the island’s population.” He pointed at the dead doe. “She can’t be from here. All of our white-tailed deer wear lightweight collars and have ear tags. We can track every one of them.”
Rawlings studied the man with interest. “It’s deer-huntingseason throughout much of the state. Is hunting prohibited on the island?”
“Yes,” Brett said. “We used to allow a certain amount of culling, but now we’re injecting a specific number of does with a contraceptive. There’s no need for hunting with this method of population control.”
“I heard the program was suspended because one of your tagged deer was found off island,” the other Riverport officer said. “A hunter could have read about that in the paper and decided to come over here and perform some old-fashioned population control.”
Brett reddened. “She’s not one of ours, I tell you. We’ve never had albinism in our population.”
“I used to come
Jan’s hand flew over her mouth. “We’re cursed,” she whispered, her face taking on the deer’s natural pallor. “Cursed,” she repeated fearfully.
And then, like a spooked animal, she bolted.
Chapter 4
A fallen lighthouse is more dangerous than a reef.
—C HINESE P ROVERB
T he sight of the dead deer paralyzed most of the walkers, including Rawlings. He stood without moving, spellbound by how the deer’s fur shone like moonlight on snow.
Millay snapped her fingers in front of the chief’s face. “Hey! Shouldn’t we call someone? What was that cop’s name? The one who kept things from getting out of control back at the lighthouse.”
“Peterson,” Rawlings said, the glassy look vanishing from his eyes. “He might still be on the island. If not, I assume the police have their own boat, because there isn’t a law enforcement station on this side of the Cape Fear River.” He turned away from the deer. “I saw that animal when I was a boy. No one believed me. But here it is.”
Harris shot Olivia a concerned glance and then held up his phone. “It’s not the same deer, Chief. According to this website, the average life span of a wild deer is ten years. They can live as long as twenty, but that would be pretty unusual for this doe, seeing as she’s a true albino. She even has pink eyes.”
Laurel shuddered. “This moonlit walk has gone from mysterious to downright creepy.”
Harris continued to examine his phone screen. “Only about one in every thirty thousand deer is a true albino.” He looked at Rawlings. “If you saw a similar deer all those years ago, then the gene has been passed down for several generations. Makes sense, considering the insular habitat of these deer. What doesn’t make sense is why anyone would kill such an amazing animal. And who goes around shooting crossbow bolts at night?”
Olivia squeezed Rawlings’s arm. “You need to call Peterson right now. I’m sure he’d prefer to hear about this from another cop.”
Harris pulled up the number for the Riverport Police Department and handed the phone to Rawlings. While the chief spoke to the officer on duty, the rest of the Bayside Book Writers retreated several feet. It was impossible to escape the cries of horror and dismay from the onlookers, however, so they stood in silence, gazing deeper into the woods where a small pool sparkled like sea glass in the pale light.
After what seemed like hours, Officer Peterson and a second officer arrived via golf cart.
“Step aside, folks,” Peterson commanded while taking in the scene.
Peterson stared at the felled animal for several seconds, in which the conservancy supporters breathlessly waited for a reaction, and then turned to the crowd. “It’s time for everyone to go home. We’ll take it from here.”
“Excuse me.” A man worked his way to Peterson’s side. “My name’s Brett Collins, and I’m involved with the Palmetto Island Deer Initiative. We maintain the island’s population.” He pointed at the dead doe. “She can’t be from here. All of our white-tailed deer wear lightweight collars and have ear tags. We can track every one of them.”
Rawlings studied the man with interest. “It’s deer-huntingseason throughout much of the state. Is hunting prohibited on the island?”
“Yes,” Brett said. “We used to allow a certain amount of culling, but now we’re injecting a specific number of does with a contraceptive. There’s no need for hunting with this method of population control.”
“I heard the program was suspended because one of your tagged deer was found off island,” the other Riverport officer said. “A hunter could have read about that in the paper and decided to come over here and perform some old-fashioned population control.”
Brett reddened. “She’s not one of ours, I tell you. We’ve never had albinism in our population.”
“I used to come
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